Written on December 2nd about November 28-December 2, 2011
Chakyarkoothu is an old temple art form of Kerala. It can easily be described as the precursor of the contemporary stand-up comic routines. Centuries before the Russell Peterses, the Ross Nobleses and the Jimmy Carrs, the Chakyars of Kerala used to skewer their audience members generously all the way along a story line that would usually be something out of the Hindu epics expended in a lighter way.
A famous anecdote about a Chakyarkoothu involves a spectator who desperately wanted to pee in between the performance. He manages to sneak out. But the Chakyar notices. Though the man initially left with the purpose of peeing, he soon realized that he had more to get out of his system. So he relieves himself completely in the nearby undergrowth and realizes to his horror that there is no water to clean himself.
Since any paper around him was still in its alive, wooden, pre-pulp form, he takes care of the matter with some leaves and returns to the temple. Chakyar notices the unusual length of the 'pee-break' and understands that more than pee was broken. He had been narrating the pre-war episode of the epic Ramayana that night. And just as the man re-entered, Chakyar reached the point in the story where Hanuman successfully returns after torching Lanka.
Looking straight at the man, the talented Chakyar sang: "Onninu poyavan randum kazhinjittu vellam thodathe thirichu vannu" (The one who went for one, did two things and returned without touching water) Obvious reference to Hanuman, the monkey-god, who flew over the ocean to meet the imprisoned Sita, but on top of meeting her, burned down Lanka and returned jumping across the ocean without getting wet.
The verse, however, had a whole different, intimate, intensely personal meaning for the man in the audience.
That verse effectively captured my state as well on last Monday morning. I had gone to the hospital on the 10th of November for laparoscopic removal of hernia (onninu poyavan-went for one), but then in two weeks time, underwent another surgery (randum kazhinju-got two done) and came back home with a massive bandage which had to be guarded from getting wet(vellam thodathe-without touching water).
We took a cab to the hospital. The driver Praveen was younger than the driver Baiju of the previous week. He recognized Achan as he was from the area where Achan had been branch manager of the Central Bank for a couple of years. His wife had an account in that branch. Their son, Bhagyanath, will be one year old on the 22nd December.
"Athinte aduthu epozho alle Achante birthday?" (Isn't your birthday also near that day?) I asked Achan shamelessly on our way back from the hospital.
"December 2nd" Achan replied.
Every year, I wait for Amma or Tara to remind me about Achan's birthday and Achan or Tara to remind me of Amma's birthday. Tara's birthday, I remember very well because it happens to be the title of a famous Malayalam movie and she shares that birthday with Seenu. Scaring the wrath of these two women upon my forgetfulness keeps, that particular date is always fresh in my memory. With my parents, I had been more careless.
At the hospital, I wait inside Dr. Haridas's consultation room. He had arrived early in the morning but was caught up in some construction related board meeting. I try to avoid worrying about the intense pain that might strike when he removes the bandage. Dr. Manoj is careful not to make eye-contact lest I ask him to take off my bandage.
While we wait, the jovial Dr. Gopakumar walks into the room with a patient in tow. He sits down at the desk usually reserved for Dr. Shyam to quickly do this consultation. Thus he was facing us and the patient was right in front of us, facing away. He reads through a small bit of paper the patient presumably had given him. "Why are you eating aspirin if you don't have a serious heart condition? In fact, why are you eating all these tablets?! All that these medications can do is to make you look aged and old fast. There is no other benefit."
"But doctor my fasting glucose is 127," the patient, a healthy man in his 70s with greying long hair and bushy mustache, said hesitantly.
Hearing that number, both me and Achan began laughing quietly. Dr. Gopakumar laughs too and points towards us, "Look at those two laughing, they are both 127. People with 700 are running around here happily. And you are asking medication for it, that too at this age! Just manage your diet, you are perfectly alright! Do you do any exercise?"
"Nothing specific, but daily I have to climb up and down four flights of stairs several times as part of my job"
Dr. Gopakumar crumbles the small sheet of paper, jokingly strikes his forehead in disbelief,"Hayyo! Please go away man! You are too much! No medication for you"
The man, obviously relieved, turns towards us, "The doctor has every right to scold me. He is not an outsider. He is my elder brother's classmate."
I feel a bit sad that those olden days, when classmates of siblings could be easily counted as family, have disappeared.
Finally, Dr. Haridas arrives and gestures me to go lie down in the examination room. I bend while walking. "Nivarnu nadakarayile, Arun?" (Aren't you ready to walk upright, Arun) he asks. "Chafing undo ennu samsayam, doctor"(I think I might have chafing) I make that painful face that had become a standard frequent fixture accompanying my imaginary aches in the last few days.
He confirms that I didn't get the bandage wet and off it comes in one simple move. The whole thing removed like a cup. No pain. No nothing. Lightness. Relief.
"Perfect. perfect. Look yourself, Arun" Dr. Haridas is visibly pleased.
I look.
And I have been looking ever since frequently.
The transformation has been captivating at a personal juvenile level.
Part of my body which at the peak of the disorder looked very much like a frigate bird (google it) now resembled a pachyderm....a young one...alright, a baby pachyderm...the hair bristles having as much to do with the resemblance as the skin.
The stitch-free sealing of the surgical wound looks like a singeing. I have been reading in Tavernier's book about the terrible pirates of the Malabar coast who struck terror in the hearts of Portuguese, Dutch and English sailors. I could be one of them with a fine name and this scar to show for it now.
But before piracy, I had a little business to take care of. I hold Dr. Haridas's hand. "Sir, we saw that you didn't charge a fee for the surgery."
"Doesn't matter" he smiled dismissively.
"No, Please revise the bill. We get reimbursed." I insisted.
"Ok, we will take care of that over phone. Take rest for 3 days. And after 10 days, you can be more active. You are perfectly alright now. After a few weeks, may be we can meet to talk about non-medical stuff. You are a knowledgeable person." he said exiting through the sliding door.
As soon as the doctor leaves the room, the dreaded Capt. Singed Scrotum, the Malabari scourge of the Arabian sea, sits upright on the examination bed!
With great confidence, he trots off the high bed.
In a flash, his body reminds him that he will remain Scamp Tender-loins for a few more days.
On Friday, when I had left the hospital with the bandage, slowly limping down the ramp from the second floor, Prasad and the bald attendant followed us balancing between them a trolley of empty cardboard boxes. "Discharge aayo?" Prasad asked. "Yes" I said. The bald attendant smiled and waved me bye. I smiled and waved back and realized that along with the traumatic tissue fluid and harmful hernial sac, any ill-will that I harbored towards that man had also been removed.
Next three days (Monday-Wednesday), I spent most of the day and whole of the nights in bed. Encouraging, enlivening reduction in pain every day.
With Tavernier and his excellent translator Mr. Ball, I have traveled across 17th century India in the 20 chapters of the Vol 1 so far. Two more books to go that cover his six voyages. But already so many characters and events!
There is the Capuchin monk, Rev Epharim who was imprisoned by the Holy Inquisition in Goa because of his growing popularity in Madras. The Pope himself interfered to get this good priest released, but by the time the message arrived, the monk had been in prison for around 8 months. The Inquisition put him in a cell with a constantly swearing blasphemer. Everyday, the prisoners are asked what they would like to eat for their three meals. The blasphemer always ordered tobacco which came wrapped in white paper. (The businessman Tavernier notes that heavy paper is used to wrap tobacco because Indian merchants can thus cheat on the weight)
Ephairm had hidden in his cloak lead pencils (real lead ones, not graphite) with which he made daily notes on the white wrappers he borrowed from his fellow inmate. But this dangerous note-making activity had to be done at nights using the narrow beam of light that tunneled through a tiny hole in the cell wall. As a result of this focused activity night after night for several months, when Epharim emerges from prison, he is completely cured of his severe squint in the left eye!
Since he loves elephants just as much as he loves diamonds, Tavernier dedicates a chapter on them. In the south, elephants are captured using pits dug on their paths. In the the north, the capture process is more humane. A female elephant in heat is tied up at the end of a long bamboo passage which progressively narrows after starting out imperceptibly wide. The male who approaches unwittingly walks into the passage and finds himself unable to turn around and flee after a while. In the north and northeast, two tame elephants on either side of a freshly caught one are used to thrash all wildness out of him or her.
Mughal Emperor Aurangazeb owned 500 elephants. I guess that is a reliable number compared to the fantastic ones running into tens of thousands mentioned in fables and myths of ancient kings.
In the 1650s, 10,000 cart long caravans traveling between Persia and India seem to be stuff of legends. More believable are the caravans of the Banjaras, around 100 ox cart long each. The Banjaras are further divided into castes who specialize in carrying only a particular material in their caravans. Dedicated caravan services for rice, wheat etc. One caste will not carry any other material. They wear specially colored marks on their forehead to advertise this.
Tavernier is deeply impressed by the absence of prisons in India. Justice here was quick. Either the accused are let off freely because of lack of proof or punished severely immediately. There is no business of keeping them in prison.
How much has this land changed in the last few centuries?!
Now India spends crores of Rupees on keeping prisoner a terrorist who has been caught on tape gunning down innocents! Bail means freedom and corrupt politicians who have looted the nation, when released on bail receive welcomes as if they are freedom fighters and social champions.
"These bloody Indians, they eat cow-dung" I don't know from where and when this statement entered my memory in colonial context but it has been with me since I was a teenager. I had assumed that it was made by some officer of the Raj about the Indian habit of eating the sacred ash in the temples. But reading Tavernier, I have become aware of a totally different ritual that might have led to this remark.
As a form of penance, there were people who sustained only on the undigested grains they could find in cow-dung! They would walk around the streets and fields following cows and oxen. This practice is also reported in Ain-i-Akbari. Apparently, Brahmins held the practitioners of this ritual in high esteem!
I am sure modern right-wing Hindu groups will argue how healthy such a diet is, but I doubt if any of them will adopt it.
I will note down lots more of Tavernier tales in the coming days.
Today, December 2, is Achan's birthday. Without him, I wouldn't have been. And now, after my second round of absolute dependence this previous month, I can honestly say that without him, I wouldn't be.
Happy Birthday, Acha!
Freud had said that money cannot bring happiness because money is never an infantile wish. But getting the approval of parents certainly is an infantile wish. May be I will aim for it, within logical constraints, as a source of happiness in future.
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